A Hatred Born From Laker Love

By

Jon Weinbach

Updated June 4, 2008 11:19 a.m. ET

It's easy to love a team. But to truly appreciate sports, you also have to hate.

I learned this lesson growing up in Los Angeles during the mid-1980s. Thanks to my dad's partial package of season tickets and the wonders of cable TV, I spent countless hours watching Magic Johnson, Kareem Abdul-Jabbar, James Worthy and the rest of the L.A. Lakers of the "Showtime" era. At one point in elementary school, I owned five different Lakers T-shirts, a pair of Converse high tops featuring the Lakers' logo and had memorized the team media guide. (I was likely one of the few 10-year-olds aware that A.C. Green, the team's Jheri-curled power forward, didn't believe in pre-marital sex.)

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The Lakers' Michael Cooper and the Celtics' Larry Bird tangle as Boston's Robert Parish and L.A.'s Magic Johnson look on during the 1987 NBA Finals.
Sports Illustrated

Just as importantly, I detested the Boston Celtics. Before I had mastered fractions I knew all about the Lakers' unbearable tradition of losing to the Celtics. In 1984, as a second-grader, I cried after Boston beat L.A. in a grueling, seven-game championship series. The next year, I was at the Forum, the Lakers' faux-Roman arena, when Celtics guard Dennis Johnson nailed a jumper as time expired to win Game 4 of the NBA Finals. (A few days later, when the Lakers won the '85 championship in Boston, my brother and I nearly crushed my Dad &ndash; and our parents' bed &ndash; in celebration.) But the next year brought a double-whammy: I was in the stands as Ralph Sampson, the spindly 7-foot-4 center of the Houston Rockets, eliminated the Lakers from the playoffs with a miraculous, volleyball-style shot at the buzzer, and then watched the Celtics dismantle Houston for the title. It was a brutal summer.

During that era, I didn't just dislike the Celtics. My venom had layers. I couldn't stand Boston's plodding, physical style of play, which often stifled the Lakers' fast-break attack. I was annoyed that Tommy Heinsohn -- a former Celtic! -- was the color commentator for NBA games on CBS. And I despised -- deeply, truly, passionately -- every player on their roster: Kevin McHale and his Frankenstein shoulders; Greg Kite, a 6-foot-11 bruiser whose only apparent skill was fouling Kareem as hard as possible; and naturally Larry Bird, who was just so frustratingly good.

I loathed team president Red Auerbach and his victory cigars, but the Celtic who really made my blood boil was Danny Ainge. A whiny, wildly annoying shooting guard with a choirboy face, he constantly complained to the refs -- and had a penchant for making clutch three-pointers. He personified the Celtics' evil hoops empire. Meanwhile, I loved every possible thing about the Lakers. I imitated Magic's no-look passes during recess pick-up games and pulled my socks up high like Michael Cooper, the Lakers' toothpick-skinny sixth man. When my friend Mark and I played one-on-one, we would narrate the action like Chick Hearn, the Lakers' legendary announcer: A shot that barely missed was described as a "Heart-brrreak" and our rule was always "no harm, no foul." On a whim, my brother and I would hum the cheesy, late-Disco theme song that introduced Laker TV broadcasts. (And yes, I recently dug it up on YouTube.)

The games at the Forum were even sweeter. Outsiders like to mock L.A. fans for their tardiness and blas&eacute; attitude, but we sat among true zealots -- older fans who got there early, yelled at the refs and donned headphones to listen to Mr. Hearn call the action. The regulars in our row included a pair of paunchy women, usually in matching bright-yellow Laker jackets, who rarely smiled but always brought their own big bags of cheese popcorn. Directly behind us sat a large African-American man and his Asian wife, both of whom often came decked out in all-purple Laker gear. He loved to yell "Sweet Baby James!" every time Mr. Worthy slammed home a dunk. After particularly exciting plays, he just extended his big hand and implored me to give him five.

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The author at age 12, sporting some of his Lakers paraphernalia.
Jon Weinbach/The Wall Street Journal

All of my sports-fan impulses -- love for the Lakers and hatred of the Celtics -- came to a head on June 14, 1987. It was no ordinary Sunday. The Lakers were playing the Celtics at the Forum in Game 6 of the NBA Finals. A win would clinch the championship for the Lakers, and it was our turn in the ticket rotation. My parents were out of town -- a trip my dad still regrets -- so my brother, a ninth-grader and not yet 15, called a cab to take us to the game. We entered the arena at least 30 minutes before tip-off, early enough to see Mr. Bird go through his extensive pre-game drills. What followed was the classic routine for playoff games at the Forum: The Lakers emerging from the locker room as Randy Newman's "I Love L.A." blared over the speakers; Jeffrey Osborne singing the national anthem; and the Lakers reserves leading the crowd in a slow, rhythmic clap before the introduction of the team's starting five.

My memories of the game are a little fuzzier. I do recall feeling very nervous and screaming repeatedly for the Lakers to "wake up." (The Celtics were winning by five at halftime.) But the second half was pure joy. At some point in the third quarter, Mr. Worthy dove for a loose ball near the sideline and tapped it to Magic for a breakaway dunk, which ignited a big run by the Lakers. I remember the fourth quarter as a parade of fast breaks by the Lakers followed by desperate Boston timeouts -- and ecstatic high-fives with my brother. With the game -- and championship -- in hand, Coach Pat Riley began taking out the Lakers' starters. The last one out was Mr. Abdul-Jabbar, the 40-year-old center who had scored 32 points. When he came to the sidelines, Mr. Worthy lifted him off the ground and the crowd roared.

After the final buzzer, my brother and I made our way down to the court and joined the celebration on the hardwood, where fans were holding up signs that said "Purple Reign" and "Party at Kareem's!" It's been 21 years since that Sunday, and L.A. is finally playing Boston again in the Finals. I'm still a passionate Lakers fan -- that is, unless I'm writing a news story about them &ndash; but I don't hate the Celtics anymore. After '87, I transferred the ill will to the Detroit Pistons, the Chicago Bulls, the Utah Jazz and all the other teams that vanquished the Lakers over the years. Times have changed: Chick Hearn died six years ago, Mr. Auerbach passed away in 2006, and the Forum is now owned by a church. I like the three best players on this year's Celtics roster -- Kevin Garnett, Paul Pierce and Ray Allen -- and I even saw Mr. Pierce play in high school.

There is still one villain from the good old days: Mr. Ainge, who's now Boston's general manager and executive director of basketball operations. I'm ready to hate him all over again.

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